


Need

by morethanprinceofcats



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Sex, idk how tags work on this website, uh basically just a toxic boyfriend slash crime boss who gets off on comforting his femme fatale gf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 07:49:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18936571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morethanprinceofcats/pseuds/morethanprinceofcats
Summary: 'He makes a point of knowing her weaknesses.  He likes that he's one of them.'





	Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skazka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/gifts).



She doesn't want him often, but he can live with that, because oh how she wants him when she does.

 

Qi'ra, fragile like a flame on a short match, has only grown resilient with time, hard where she once had been frail.  There are jobs she can do the way she brushes out that dark hair of hers, sets it into rollers for tomorrow - an unglamorous necessity of the lifestyle, she called it once, smile barely cracking.  Why, she even looked him in the eye as she said it - briefly.  But her deft dispatch of the hostages today, while graceful and accomplished, had taken something out of her. Her hand barely shook, and that from adrenaline, as he took it in both of his own and kissed her fingertips.  But when he danced his eyes up her arm and into her own, he knew.  

 

So he leaves the light on for her that night, bids her approach like a moth to a lantern, and all he has to do is wait.

 

.

 

"Let me take care of that for you," she says in a velvet voice from the doorway.  He knows her footsteps before he hears her voice.  Of course, that's got nothing to do with her being the only soul around to have the code for entry.  Even the droids have to knock, as it were.  And whose sake is that for, he wonders?  She'd never come if she had to ask.  He knows, because she never used to.

 

Dryden turns elegantly to look at her in the shadows, throws out his arm in a gesture of greeting.  And gives her a broad smile.

 

"Qi'ra, how unexpected," he lies easily, and gestures to the tie he'd been undoing.  "What good fortune, your arriving like this." 

 

She's taken off her shoes in the hallway, leaving her crucially shorter than usual when she reaches him, to help with the tie.  It's not adrenaline now making her hands shake.  He waits til the tie's come off before he clasps her hands in his own.  Pitches his voice melodically low and solicitous: "Qi'ra," with practiced, poignant concern. "Darling, what is it?"

 

The cosmetic paint on her face is worn away a little.  He's going to guess she rubbed at her eyes and willed herself to stop tearing up, but it must have been after he last saw her.  He insisted she join him at dinner, a bit of insurance on his part for tonight; if he'd let her vanish after the assassination, she might have kept herself together enough to not need him, and in truth, lately he's needed her, and a bit of groping in his office hasn't been enough, not for months now.  The more admirably she sat through the dinner, the worse it would be later, he'd hoped.  He's always right.

 

Little black curls swish, she shakes her head.  He puts a fingertip to her chin, insists.  They've done this song-and-dance from nearly the start; he doesn't tire of it.  And he thinks:  _she doesn't tire of it, either._

 

"The mother," she says after a moment, throat gummed up, unwilling or unable to speak.  She doesn't like to confide these things in him.  Most probably, she can sense the emptiness of his understanding, whatever he says, the same way he can feel her unhappiness, like an ache in his muscles, in the middle of a situation that brings him real, palpable apathy.  "The way she screamed, when I did the littlest.  When I..."

 

Qi'ra's not cruel by nature, not even now.  But she's efficient, and she knows cause-and-effect; and so when she holds a man's family hostage, say, to ease him into the correct political decision, she can't comprehend how he could be so foolish as to disobey; but she knows what she has to do.  Which part was more satisfying: watching his devastation as he begged to take back the irrevocable, or watching Qi'ra give truth to the threat, knowing what it was  _doing_  to her?

 

He'd love to let her work up to it, but Dryden's never as patient as he wants to be, and so he coaxes her, "Because your own mother, she never set so high a price on you?"  And that makes her crumble, her whole face falls, and she topples into his arms, and he pulls her to the bed.

 

There have been moments in the past - fleeting things, really, fires that never took hold - where Dryden has held a woman and listened to her sorrows, and felt it deep in his heart: an emptiness.  By the gods, why won't she just leave.  Qi'ra's sorrows are different, the way  _Qi'ra_  is different.  He imagines that Qi'ra's sorrows have a taste.  You have to season some people.  They're bland on their own.  But never her.  The sweet honey of her trust, her admiration and gratitude, and the salt of her tears, are already hers.  Dryden rakes his fingers through her hair and holds her close as she burrows her face against his chest.  He likes this so much that he never minds the streaks of mascara that find their way onto his silk shirt.  There's a droid for that, there's a droid for everything.  But for this, there is only Qi'ra.

 

"Tell me, Qi'ra. Tell me  _everything_."

 

It tumbles out of her like he's pulling the stitches loose on a cloth doll and now suddenly here's all the stuffing.  Qi'ra says, "I've never done it before. Killed children," and her pain is bright, white starlight; and he answers, "He gave you no other choice," with all the real appearance of compassion, and her eyes, wet and glimmering, search his, and she says, "But they were  _innocent_ ," and she cries again, and when he presses her face against him again, and hears her suck in deeper breaths in the futile effort to calm herself, it's like hearing music.  A symphony in moonlight.  Dryden admires her for the vividness of her imagination, and so he chooses to indulge her childish belief in right or wrong.  But it's more than that.  He has an uneasy feeling that the day will never come where she does not need the fairytale.  It's the price he must pay to keep something so beautiful.

 

"That you even care proves that you're still a good woman," Dryden whispers, his dry lips very near her own, but not near enough for a kiss - instead he needs to look into her eyes.  "But the fact that you could do it anyway proves how  _strong_  you are.  I need that, Qi'ra.  Any weak person can be cruel, it costs them nothing.  But I need  _you_  to be.  Because I know that if you do it, then it is only because it was necessary."

 

When he sees that switch flip in her eyes, give over from resisting him to wanting more, then his grip in her hair presses her face down, and he kisses her on the top of her head. She murmurs his name and turns her head back, which he allows; and then he feels, gentle but insistent, the press of her lips against his throat.  There's nothing feigned when he gasps.

 

"I do it because it's you," she whispers back fiercely.  Her eyes, so large and dark, like little galaxies, seek his out now.  "I'd do anything for you, Dryden - I- "

 

He brushes his thumb over her lips.

 

"I know," he says.  

 

Qi'ra kisses his thumb, and then she kisses him on the mouth, hard and decisive. He lets her.  When Dryden wants her, there are very few words between them, but nights like these she wants to hear him say her name.  He lets her taste it on his tongue.  She must know what he's feeling, there are  _several_  loud tells, but still he hears it from her every time, "May I... Dryden... Please?"  People who ask Dryden Vos for things usually end up deep in his debt, possibly even dead.  His prices are steep.  But Qi'ra can pay them.  He moans into her mouth, " _Yes_."

 

His so graceful, so eloquent Qi'ra tears the strap of her delicate little camisole (but there are droids for that) as she wrenches it over her head.  Her voice is so throaty from all of that weeping that she cries out at his caresses.  He even lets her undress him in that state, even though two buttons come off with the shirt.  To be honest, it excites him further.  He notices the great pains she takes to bring down his constant fever.  She even monitors his drinking, though he supposes she doesn't know that he knows that.  But she's careless when her desire is very great, and he makes a point of knowing her weaknesses.  He likes that he's one of them.

 

It's so much work to bring Qi'ra off, usually.  She slips into a masklike smile sometimes, one that is a placeholder for another emotion, when he touches her.  She'd rather he urge her to touch him, and, well, he does.  But sometimes it's not his own pleasure he chases, but hers.  That is the garnish that improves the dish, and he hates to be denied anything, even in the office, at two in the afternoon, after a successful merger, a satisfying murder and a couple of drinks - Qi'ra backed into the corner of the couch, biting his hand to stay quiet.  

 

But when it's what she wants, it's no effort at all.  Dryden does like to be helpful.  And he enjoys a good view.

 

It would be such a lie to say he is in the right presence of mind for sight-seeing, however.  Qi'ra needs him, body  _and_ soul. He lets her have what she needs.  After all, though he'd little admit to it, it's sweet to give for a change.

 

.

 

Long finished, Qi'ra is still warm and damp in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder.  She's got her hand resting on his chest, and her thumb continually strokes him, without thinking.  Meanwhile, more deliberately, he pets her hair.  At least, he thinks it is deliberate.  But that's in daylight, and she's taken so much from him tonight, he's having some trouble concentrating on what's left.

 

That lamp's still on.  It gives the room an atmosphere that makes it feel more like a home than it was ever meant to feel.  It was supposed to just be damn good lighting, for moments like this, and for dressing in front of a full-length mirror.  But when he turns his head to the side, he can see her face at an angle.  The question is out of his mouth before he can retract it, drowsy, strange to his own ears. "Qi'ra.  Do you hate me?"

 

He can see her eyes open, and they meet his as soon as they do.  "No.  I've never hated you."

 

He did see her brow furrow, but the words came out too soon for him to think she hasn't lied.  And something else makes him think she's honest, too - his discomfort with the way she answers.  Not effusive enough.  She wasn't shocked that he'd think to ask.  She should have at least pretended to be.  But what else can he expect from her, his  _good woman_ , naked in his arms?  She's a bad enough liar otherwise.

 

"But I suppose you think you should."

 

His fingers find the brand he burned into the back of her neck.  Like a stray piece of music, he can still remember the sob of pain that wrung from her.  

 

"I don't know.  I've never thought of it," she says, and he attempts a tight smile - "So now you will?" But her answering smile is sincere, and sad, and she isn't avoiding his eyes.

 

"I hate myself, sometimes," she says quietly, moving her hand onto his arm and rubbing affectionately.  "You know.  I could have died a long time ago.  Let someone kill me.  I've had the  _option_."

 

"You want that?  You wish you were weak?"

 

A childish disgust enters into his voice, but Qi'ra's not afraid of that now.  A twinge of relief wars with a fizzle of anger, that Qi'ra doesn't quail, but she lifts her head a little, and as a curl tumbles down over her neck, onto a perfect sharp collarbone, he's reminded of how good it is to have her here.  There are times when Qi'ra should fear him, and she does so magnificently.  But he doesn't want it here, he quickly decides.  He makes up for it with an equally boyish kiss, impetuous and worried that mother might be  _mad_.

 

"It doesn't matter, what I want, what I wish," she says, firmly, a ghost of a smile passing over her lips and then fading.  "I'm  _not_  weak.  I get to live with that."

 

His breathing is rough again; he kisses her until the smile comes back.

 

"So do I," he says.

 

He watches her eyes come unfocused, listens for her breathing to shorten.  Tomorrow she'll wake before he does.  His breakfast will be arranged, his day planned, his lieutenant dressed and curled and made-up fresh and shiny and new, crisp edges, as soft and inviting to touch as a knife.  Tonight, she's still an open wound, and he gets to be the knife.  Let that last a little longer, he reminds himself, with both frustration and admiration in mind; because she's getting strong, he's making her stronger, and it's going to take more damage than this next time, to bring her this low.  

 

He still has one thing, one weakness she hasn't conquered; that he'll never allow.  She touches his cheek and he grips her wrist, feeling her pulse flutter beneath the brand.

 

"And do you... still like that?" she manages, the words running together.  "Living with me?"

 

This time when he kisses her, he doesn't let up till she's making sweet, soft, needing noises.  He can't, because then he'd have to answer her, and it's so late, and he's so raw, he might actually tell her that he  _doesn't_  like it.  

 

That he requires it.  

 

That he requires her.  Like a moth, drawn to a fragile flame.


End file.
